Babysitters100
by mistrali
Summary: 100 fics for babysitters100 at LJ and DW. Ratings and warnings vary, but will only be included if the chapter is rated T or above. NC-17 stories (if any) will be posted elsewhere. LATEST FIC: Tabitha Porter is no cackling, warty spell-caster, but she might as well be.
1. What do you expect, Kishi, reunion hugs?

**Prompt: 073: Artist, Table 5**

"I'd like to present the Stoneybrook Young Artists' Award to Ashley Wyeth, for her Mosaic Landscapes installation!" called the presenter. I blinked. That was definitely Ashley Wyeth making the thank-you speech up there, fragile and blue-veined, still looking as if she'd be blown away by the next breeze. She wore a blue lace top with a white collar, white leather boots and a beige skirt. I hadn't seen her since middle school.

Should I go up and tell her how much I admired her artwork, a series of mosaics shaped to look like landscapes? I remembered how whip-smart Ashley had been, how dedicated. It looked as if that had paid off. If I'd worked hard, maybe I could've... but no, I was never serious. And it wasn't like I painted now, anyway.  
After a split second of hesitation, I shook myself and joined the line to congratulate her. What do you expect, Kishi, reunion hugs? I asked myself, and grinned. It was what Cokie would've said if she'd been there. But she hadn't exactly wanted to come to a two-hour art exhibition. "Spare me the notes, okay? You can tell me all about the pretty artwork later, at the Rosebud." I hardly blamed her: the last time she'd dragged me to one of her women's rights groups I'd sat there glassy-eyed. After that I'd (mostly) stopped begging her to keep me company on shopping trips: now that Erica had gone to Canada on exchange, I had no one to squeal over Louis Vuitton purses with.

I extended a hand, wishing the butterflies in my stomach would stop."Hi. I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your use of line," I said in a rush, feeling all of thirteen again. She gave me a strange look. Oh, smooth. I probably sounded like a middle schooler flaunting her knowledge of technique. "I mean," I said quickly, "your beach landscape has beautiful curves in the sandstone. Is it based on a real place?" She nodded, not smiling. "Thanks, Claudia. It's from Daley Falls beach in Chicago."

Listen, I'm not the greatest when it comes to schoolwork, but I am definitely not stupid. Years of babysitting and sketching faces have taught me to read people. So I realised thirty seconds too late that she was probably still annoyed at me. I couldn't imagine why, after so long, but my friends and I had been too attached to the BSC to spend much time with anyone outside of it. I guess Ashley took it personally. And I can understand why: looking back, I wasn't very social back then. It must have been the excitement of having a real business, plus all the sitting jobs and extra activities that took up most of our non-school time.

Ashley introduced me to a guy in a frayed Armani suit standing next to her, who turned out to be her dad. I cleared my throat, then smiled and said hi (even if Ashley was mad, I should at least try to be civil). "So you're going to take art in junior year, I guess?" I asked as casually as possible. Ashley bit her lip and replied, "Yeah. I'm doing law too, so I have better career prospects. What about you? You still into sculpting heads?" She gave me a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. I fiddled with my purple hairclip and smiled politely, suddenly wanting this conversation to be over. I also felt a lot less guilty about how I'd ditched her and barely kept in contact through eighth grade. If she was going to be rude, I was having second thoughts about getting to know her better.

Still, maybe it wouldn't be as bad somewhere more informal, so I shrugged and suggested we catch up for dessert at Friendly's next Friday. I wasn't stupid enough to believe we'd hit it off right away, but I hoped she would consider being friends again.


	2. Hocus-Pocus

A little Morbidda Destiny character study, for babysitters100. Yes, yes, I know it's another Mrs-Porter-is-really-a-witch story.

* * *

Hocua

**Hocus-Pocus**

In the next house, Karen Brewer's breath gurgles in her throat; asleep, she has no cares in the world. Tabitha grimaces, remembering how she caught the child creeping into her garden at night. Disciplining children (and their parents) is a luxury nowadays. If only she'd been able to boil the girl in milk and hellebore or steal her away for a changeling, as when times were prosperous, she would've done it as a lesson to that idiot Watson. But of course, nothing important ever lasts in this town, thinks Tabitha Porter glumly. Next year, Karen will be alive and even more unbearable. It is a side-effect of all this, people being whittled away to one shrill note as her time-shield over Stoneybrook cracks and the magic slips away. She'll have to find some way to seal it in, or the fairies and pixies will die just as she is doing. The humans will simply... stop. Stay frozen, like bees in amber. So really, she's doing the whole wretched species a favour.

But the child isn't far wrong, and that's depressing. Tabitha is no warty, cackling old spell-caster, but she might as well be. She'd rather have her own bestiary than be a guide for the creatures of the underworld, the erstwhile fair folk of Britain, but those days are past. She has thought it wise to cultivate a wart on the end of her nose and a croak for style, but really, the grey hair and clothes are a perk of the lean pickings, the pinch of mortality. It's harder now to stoke the fire for the summons, despite the balmy weather. Her fingers are always aching, swelling with the heat and reddening in winter, and the old potions are running out. Payment in mixing and crushing her herbs tonight - a whole year's worth, in case they fail to turn up at winter equinox - will be worth all the magic she can give the creatures. But it's not all bad. The pixies are always good for a laugh, in their desire to wreak havoc (a certain fertility charm, planted in a certain household some years ago, resulted in eight children, five more than the occupants expected).

They're swarming about her now, enticed by her burning sage and, well, dark chocolate from the box Mrs Brewer gave her at Christmas, out of pity for the old woman who spent the last two Christmases alone. (The shortbread and strong whisky, though, helped enormously. She makes a note to thank the woman - maybe a nice subtle growth charm on one of the rosebushes.)


End file.
